


A Hundred Years

by fables



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-21
Updated: 2005-11-21
Packaged: 2018-04-21 14:02:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4831790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fables/pseuds/fables
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jirou dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hundred Years

**Author's Note:**

> More of a writing exercise than a proper fic, and strange even by my standards. Written using the highly revered WWCTMWCIIMS:D (write whatever comes to mind who cares if it makes sense. :D) school as a template.

Jirou's parents take him to the doctor for the first time when he's seven. He falls asleep once in the waiting room and twice on the gurney. Wakes up again when he feels the cold metal pressing against his chest.

There's nothing wrong with him, his doctor says. He just likes to sleep. Jirou yawns, blinks his eyes. "I could've told you that myself," he says crossly. Falls asleep again in the car on the way home.

The sky turns black and the ground turns red and they pass hills haunted by pale spirits. "Stop watching horror movies," his mother says, but the spirits crowd around their car, peering sightlessly into their eyes.

His father turns to his mother and says, "I don't think we can do this," but his mother wants to keep going.

There is thunder and lightning in their path, a storm inside the car, the door opens and it spills out, his father and mother still arguing, the spirits crowd in. One says, _he shall sleep for a hundred years,_ and Jirou hears and opens his eyes.

 

There are several other trips to hospitals and clinics after that, with doctors that keep poking and prodding at Jirou and one time even hooking dozens of wires to his head. _Narcolepsy_ , they say, and _recurrent hypersomnia_ and _hormonal imbalance_ and _noctural myoclonus syndrome_ and a great many other words that make Jirou even sleepier than usual.

It is all very tiring.

"Here," his father says one day, and hands him a racket almost as tall as he is. "Maybe this will keep you awake."

Jirou's fingers are small and can barely span around the handle. The grip tape itches under his palm and his cap keeps falling over his eyes.

"You have to hit the ball across the net," his father says. Jirou yawns, and his father tosses him the ball. Jirou hits it, but it's his racket that flies away from his hand.

Jirou stares, startled fully awake. The court is the green of grass, the racket clatters as it falls.

Jirou laughs. “The ball hit the racket, instead of the other way around! Ne, do it again!”

“You can’t let go that easily,” his father says.

“I _know_ ,” Jirou says, and picks up his racket.

The ball looks golden in the dying sunlight and Jirou chases it around the court. His grip around the racket is so tight that it’s almost painful. The next time he wakes there are crosshatch marks on his cheek and blades of grass tickling his forehead and chin. His breath is still coming in sharp gasps. In the sky, the sun is burning a bright red.

“Do you want to play again?” His father asks him, and Jirou does, and these are the things that Jirou dreams of after - a ball like the sun, a racket like a shield, the feel of the racket strings under his fingertips and the handle under his grip.

 

He meets Atobe the second week of school during tennis tryouts. “Don’t you do anything but sleep?” is the first thing that Atobe ever asks him.

“I play tennis sometimes,” Jirou replies.

He meets Atobe the second week of school, but it isn’t until the third week, after they've played a game together, that Jirou's sure that Atobe is real. 

 

The things that Jirou learns in school are these. The teacher doesn't mind if you fall asleep in class, and someone will always do your homework if you're a regular on the tennis team. The couch in the clubroom is comfortable, but you're less likely to be disturbed on the roof. The average time it takes to win a game is twenty minutes, and it's better to fall asleep on the grass outside the courts than on the stands. Rokkaku has the best grounds and Yamabuki the worst. The games that Hyoutei plays are always the most distracting, and Atobe's games sound more like rock concerts than tennis.

Jirou wanders off before a game once, and Kabaji isn't able to find him. They have to forfeit, and months after, whenever they have tournaments, Atobe doesn't let him out of his sight. Jirou learns that the world is much louder and more crowded when you're in Atobe's company. There is something strange about people, Jirou thinks, and falls asleep more than usual, even for him.

 

He wakes because the bench is digging against the small of his back and a raindrop has landed on his nose and some second years are drawing on his face. He opens his eyes and they startle and scatter.

There's the low murmur of voices, the rhythmic sounds of the game, but just as Jirou is drifting off again, like a crash of the cymbals, the people start cheering. _Hyoutei! Hyoutei!_ Jirou frowns. Atobe is sitting two stands below him; Jirou scampers down.

"Can you tell them to be quieter?" he asks.

Atobe looks up, smirks when he sees Jirou's face. "Shishido's about to win. They're just - overly excited on his behalf. Were they trying to draw whiskers on your face? Jirou the cat. That's almost appropriate."

"I don't know. _I_ can't see my face." Jirou tries and fails to follow the game. Shishido's hair keeps distracting him; it's like a living thing.

Atobe touches him, his fingers cool against Jirou's skin. Jirou blinks, his attention drawn back. Atobe snaps his fingers. "Kabaji," he says, and Kabaji hands him a handkerchief. "Here. Use this to wipe it off," Atobe says.

Atobe's smile has faded. The handkerchief is thin, Jirou can see the blurred outlines of Atobe's face through it.

Atobe says, “You know. When I first met you, I thought there had to be something wrong with you.”

Jirou shrugs his shoulders, handing Kabaji the handkerchief. “That’s okay, I don’t mind." Stretches his arm, tries to find a comfortable position.

“I was wrong,” Atobe says, words clipped and hard. Jirou blinks.

“It's okay," he repeats. "Everyone thinks that, anyway."

The world is softening, the colors fading into each other, spilling over. "You missed a spot," Atobe says.

"What?" Jirou says. The _Hyoutei_ cheer breaks out again, but now it comes from far away. Being awake, Jirou thinks, is like being under water. A touch on his face, and Jirou closes his eyes, swims to the surface.

 

The lake reflects the sky, the sky stretches an endless blue, the sun burns in the middle like a blazing jewel. They stand on a balcony overlooking the world. On the horizon is the shadow of mountains. The tree branches are upside down, higher than the sky, the wind stirs between them, the leaves fall into the water, yellow and red, the sky ripples.

“I’m not _everyone_ ,” Atobe says, and the inflection on the words has changed now, shifted from annoyed to offended.

“We're under water,” Jirou says.

“Of course we aren't. I wouldn't let dirty sea water touch this shirt. It can only be dry-cleaned."

Atobe's not wearing a shirt, but a violet robe. Jirou reaches out to touch it, finds it soft and warm under his fingers.

"See?" Jirou says. "I know. You're Atobe," and Atobe's eyes widen.

The sun falls from the sky. Atobe catches it in the palms of his hands without breaking Jirou's gaze. “I’m good, aren’t I?” Atobe says, his lips curling up. The same words he'd said the first time they played together, and Jirou’s eyes fly open, are burned by the sun.

 

Grass against his cheeks, a sudden weight against his legs. _"Goddammit to hell!"_ Jirou shades his eyes and squints.

A boy is draped over his feet, two others are standing beside him, a spider-webbed pattern of shadow and light falling over them. One of the standing boys extends a hand, pulling the fallen boy to his feet.

"This is our spot," he says.

Jirou says, "but I'm sleeping here."

The third boy says, "Listen, we're _seniors_."

The boy who had tripped over him says, "You think you can get away with anything, just cause Atobe's-"

Jirou says, "Shut up, will you?" and lays back down on the grass under the shadow of ginko leaves until Kabaji shakes him awake.

“Oi, Kabaji,” Jirou says, and yawns. The world tilts, Kabaji hoisting him over his shoulder. Atobe must want him for something. Jirou closes his eyes, opens them again. Fuji has made the ball disappear.

"I told you he was good," Atobe says, annoyance and resignation and amusement threaded through his voice.

"You shouldn't tell me important things when I'm sleeping," Jirou says.

 

When Jirou loses to Fuji he asks him, _is there anyone stronger than you?_ , and Fuji says yes. He looks at the stands and Jirou follows his gaze.

The next game is between Atobe and Tezuka, and Jirou wakes in time to watch Atobe win. Hears afterwards that Tezuka has left to get his shoulder healed. Hears, a few months later, that he's returned.

"I want to play him again," Atobe says. Jirou looks at him, but Atobe doesn't notice. People are always looking at him.

It's only strange when they stop.

 

Serve, volley, sprint for the net, sweat in his eyes and back, a slow burn in his muscles. The games blur together, smeared ink illegible on the parchment of summer. Atobe passes his cheerleaders, the noise goes up another notch, he doesn't react.

It's not like him, Jirou thinks, and there's a push on his shoulders, a racket pressed against his hand. His fingers curve around the grip in a response as automatic as breathing.

"You going to wake up before I smack you with a ball or not?" Shishido asks, and Jirou smirks.

"I don't need to be awake to beat you," he says, and sets out to prove it.

They play until the sky turns the color of gunmetal, until the seasons change and snow falls, until the world is choked with white silence. Flakes tangle in Jirou's hair. He closes his eyes and feels them fall on his face, hears the whisper of a wind, the sound of it against the open fields.

"He's gone again. Nothing's going to wake him now." Shishido says.

 

No net and no court, just a boy lying on the snow, a dark shadow carelessly spilled on the perfect white.

Gakuto leans over it like a crouched bird about to set aflight, Oshitari stands over him, a tree pruned of its branches. "There is one thing we haven't tried," Oshitari says, his voice light and amused.

"Oh?" Atobe asks, slight inflection of the voice, one lifted eyebrow, a gesture of studied, elegant minimalism, and Jirou doesn't wonder where Atobe's come from, because Atobe is always there.

"A tried and true tradition."

"Do you want to do the honors?"

"I don't believe that I'm the prince."

Atobe laughs, leans over the boy. 

There’s a pressure on Jirou's lips, firm as steel, elusive as the wind. Jirou opens his eyes. Blinks at the perfectly blue sky.

 

“Practice is over, sempai,” Ohtori says. There’s sweat on his shirt, grass stains on his shorts. Atobe isn’t anywhere to be seen.

Jirou gets up from the bench and follows Ohtori to the clubroom. Takes off his clothes, takes a shower, pulls his uniform on, dreams still lingering around him like spirits, like ghosts.

 

Jirou sits on the bench because the couch would be too comfortable. Leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes, but Atobe is there before Jirou can fall asleep. He carries his bag over one shoulder, cell phone to his ear. His eyes widen when he sees Jirou.

“I’ll call you later,” he says, and clicks off the phone.

“You shouldn’t tell me important things when I’m sleeping,” Jirou says.

The day is yellow, the sun bright. It filters into the clubroom from a crack in the door, stretches like a shadow across the floor.

“Are you awake now, then?” Atobe asks, putting the phone away, taking his bag off his shoulder and putting it on the bench. Jirou blinks. Dust motes fall like tiny snowflakes in the light; the shadows are dark, the clubroom quiet. They are the only two people in the world.

Atobe steps closer. "Jirou," he says. Places a hand on Jirou's arm, as deliberately as he does everything. The heat presses against Jirou's skin and pours inside him.

 _He shall sleep for a hundred years_ , they'd once said.

“No,” Jirou says.

 

Jirou is alone in the balcony on top of the world. He's standing on the railing, swaying back and forth with the wind, so distant from the world that all he can see of mountains are tiny specks.

_Fly._

And Jirou does.

**Author's Note:**

> In case you got confused about what the fic is about, a [convo that explains it](http://sesame-seed.livejournal.com/136592.html?thread=1715856#t1715856).


End file.
